Go the Distance
by Emotistic Optimistic
Summary: Demyx hadn't always been so lazy. In fact, when he had a heart, he worked harder than any kid he knew. However, when the dreams that keep your heart strong are smashed, there may be a little alteration in your Nobody's character.


(A/N: Okay, not my best work, but try to be gentle with the reviews, guys. This is the first thing I've published in about six months )

Another few coins clinked in the emptied out coffee tin. The boy playing guitar grinned at the benefactor.

"Thank you, sir!" he said brightly, then continued to strum out a tune, the same way he had done for almost five years now. As he played, he bit his lip and looked in the tin. Not bad…more than last week, definitely. That was good, but he could do better. The sun was only just starting to dip into the ocean. He smiled to himself as he tossed his long, dirty-blond hair out of his face.

As he continued to play, a middle-aged woman came up to him, looking slightly concerned.

"Um…young man?" she asked, sounding a little apprehensive. He stopped playing and froze.

_Oh, damn… _he thought, an uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach. _She's here looking for a permit, isn't she? Okay, no worries, buddy; you've high-tailed it out of worse situations…_  
"Um, yeah?" he asked, looking up and smiling hesitantly at her.

She paused for a moment, obviously trying to phrase what she was thinking into words. "Well, how old are you?"

"Seventeen, but I'll be eighteen in September."

The woman frowned. "I see you outside my shop everyday, playing…and you're not even out of high school?"

"I will be in a month." That was a lie; he had dropped out midway through junior year.

"But…why?"

He finally relaxed. Obviously, this woman was not looking for permits. Just concerned about a boy. _Aww…that's sweet. Been a while since anyone's cared_, he thought.

"Well, my parents split a few years back…Mom got custody of me and my little sis. But…money's been tight lately, and she's been working super-hard overtime to get us by. So I try to help best I can with what I earn playing, along with a job down at the coffee place down the street." He smiled. "That, and I'm gonna be a rock star soon, so I need as much practice as I can get."

The woman chuckled. "A rock star? Isn't that a little far-fetched?"

He shook his head, green eyes wide. "Oh, no! Not at all! I've been playing since I was about five, and I've got pretty decent pipes, and I play out here enough that some producer's gotta notice me at some point. Plus…I just gotta get famous…I need to help my Ma out…I don't want her to work so hard any more."

The woman was silent for a moment, then smiled and reached into her pocket. She looked back up at him. "Listen, if you ever need anything: groceries, clothes, anything like that…just come into my shop and let me know, okay?" With that, she dropped a hundred into his tin and walked away.

He stared after her for a moment, then looked down in the tin. He picked up the bill and made sure it was really a hundred. He then let out a crow of delight, swept up the tin, and ran all the way back to his apartment.

"Ma! Ma!" he cried as he threw open the door.  
A pretty, but very tired-looking woman jumped up as he burst into the little flat. She let out a sigh when she saw it was only her son.  
"Dmyteri, don't do that," she said wearily, tucking a piece of graying brown hair behind her ear as she turned back to the dinner she was preparing. He huffed.

"Myde," he corrected.

"What?"

"Myde. That's what I want to be called. Dmyteri doesn't sound like a rock star's name."

His mother rolled her eyes. "Enough with this 'rock star' talk. I'm not in the mood to hear it tonight."

"But, Ma, I have a chance!"

"Sure, you do…so does Mr. Tchekyv next door."

Myde groaned. "Ma…c'mon…"

She slapped her knife down angrily. "No, Dmyteri, you come on! Why don't you get a real job instead of plucking that piece of firewood? You've already given up on school; are you so lazy that you're giving up on a living now?"

"Ma, I already work at the coffee shop…!" he insisted.

"Twice a week! Only twice a week! The rest of the days you're fooling around with your guitar!"

"I'm not fooling around! I'm making money; I can make a living off my guitar! I just need someone to find me!" he cried, hating the whining tone his voice was starting to pick up.

His mother huffed, then turned away and began cutting up more vegetables, not looking at Myde. "Nobody's going to find you, honey…you can work and work and work, but we're not in the position to get you what you need…"

Myde stared at her for a moment, shocked. "B-but…" he finally stuttered. "B-but what about…what about an agent?"

"You think they're free? We don't have enough to pay for one…we don't have enough to pay for even half of one." Tears filled his mother's eyes, making them sea-green. "Honey…if I could, I'd get you one…but there's just no way right now. It…it'd be better if you just gave it up."

Myde stared at her in silence. "Give up?" he whispered, more to himself than her. Something was boiling in him…what was it? Anger? Disappointment? He shook his head. No, something else…he couldn't put a finger on it. Finally, he sighed.  
"All right, then. I'll give it up," he said finally. He placed his tin on the counter. "Just as well, I made a record on tips today. Almost four hundred dollars. Might as well stop while I'm ahead." He turned and walked to the door.

"Dmyteri…" his mother started, but he interrupted.

"I'm just going down to the pier for a little bit. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Tell Izzy I say hi when she gets home," he said, then, making sure his guitar was securely strapped to his back, he walked out of the house.

A few minutes later, Myde, his guitar beside him, was sitting at the pier, his long legs dangling over the dark water. He sighed and closed his eyes as he listened to the waves lap against the poles holding up the boardwalk. Water, he decided, must have been the first music. Perfect rhythm, always in tune…  
He gritted his teeth and dug a hand into his pocket. As he got to his feet, he pulled out a guitar pick. He looked at it for a moment, then let out a cry of frustration.

"Lazy! She calls me lazy! I've been practicing and practicing for years!" he yelled out to the ocean. "She's been telling me this since the divorce! 'Dmyteri, you don't apply yourself!' 'Dmyteri, stop fooling around and focus.' 'Dmyteri, you're not getting anywhere if you just laze around like you do.' Well, you know what, Ma? I'll show you lazing around! I won't do a damn thing for you anymore!" He let out a sob of frustration. "Everything I've done is for her and Izzy! Even being famous…then she won't have to work so hard…she won't have to work at all! But no, she doesn't want that. She prefers that I get minimum wage at some coffee house!" He let out another sob, then looked down at the pick he was still holding.

"I can do it…" he said softly. "Nobody believes me, but I can…" He smiled shakily. "And I'll be famous. I'll have people cheering for me every night." He started pacing up and down the docks excitedly, telling himself his dream as he had many times before. "Someone'll find me, one day, at the dock. I'll be playing…maybe even singing that day, who knows? And he'll be so impressed, he'll give me a contract right there and then." His smile broadened. "And, after my first CD gets out, I'll be a millionaire. Then Ma won't have to work, and Izzy can get all those clothes she wants. Everyone'll know who I am. I mean, it probably won't last forever, but it'll be enough for a lifetime!" He laughed, fully caught up in his fantasy. "And there'll be girls! All the time, they'll want me. But I can't just go sleepin' around. Nah, that'll get in the tabloids. But a few girls here and there can't hurt, right? Right. And no drinking! It wrecks the vocal chords. But who needs to be drunk to have a good time? I'll be having parties all the time, so I won't have time to get drunk! And…and then, when I'm good and famous, I'll help other kids—kids…kids like me—get their big break!"

He sighed, leaning against a lamppost and looking at his pick. His eyes stung; he wanted to blame it on the sea air. He swallowed and bit his lip as he stared at the little piece of plastic.

"I can do it…" he whispered, then clenched his jaw. "But no one cares enough to give me a shot!" He threw his pick as hard as he could into the black ocean; it vanished from sight before it hit the water.

Myde collapsed back down on the pier and let out several stifled sobs. _This isn't fair…this just isn't fair…_he kept repeating in his head. _I did so much…and this is what happens?_

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Myde sat straight up, startled. He looked up and saw a tall man in black standing above him. His face was covered by a tight hood. Myde jumped up, grabbing his guitar.

"I swear, all I got is this!" he cried, ready to run. "If you want it, take it, but it'll only get you a few dollars at the pawn shop. I don't have any money on me, so if that's what you want…"

"Woah! Chill out, there, tiger, I don't want anything from you," the hooded man assured him, laughing. "Well, not anything material, anyway."

Myde's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "So…you don't want money or anything?" he asked.

The man laughed—a full, if slightly mocking, laugh. "As if! Money doesn't do me any good." He paused for a moment; he seemed to be looking Myde over. He chuckled again. "Looks like you've had a hell of a day, though, Maestro."

Myde scowled and started walking away from the man. "Listen, if you don't want anything, then leave me alone. Sorry if I was loud or anything, but I'm not in the mood to chit-chat right now…"

"Hey, I'm glad you were loud. Made it easier to hear you."

Myde spun around, jaw dropped. "You were eavesdropping?" he cried. That strange feeling was coming back; but it was different. More anger this time. Suddenly, the man laughed, and Myde snapped, "Shut up!"

He stopped, but seemed more amused than shocked. "Ah, outrage. Love it from pacifists."

Myde arched an eyebrow. "Pacifist?"

The man dropped onto the dock, letting his legs dangle over the edge. "You got it written all over you, especially after that speech you just gave. Real sweet, by the way, what you want for your Ma."

Myde frowned. He didn't like the sarcastic tone in the man's last sentence. "What's your name?" he asked suspiciously. "And why are you wearing a hood?"

The man shrugged. "Well, my name used to be Braig…how 'bout we stick with that for now? That okay, um…Dmyteri, right?"

"It's Myde."

"How the hell did you get that from Dmyteri?"

"It's a soft _t_, all right?"

"All right, all right…jeez, something's got you worked up worse than Vexen without his prune juice." Braig shrugged. "Well, as for the hood, it's 'cause I'm not supposed to be talking to you right now."

Suddenly, Myde was curious. "Me? Why can't you talk to me?"

"Don't feel so special, kiddo; not you in particular. I'm on an assignment from my boss, so I'm supposed to stay focused and out of sight. 'Cause I'm just _so_ good at it…not."

Myde sat down beside him on the pier. "What, are you in a mafia or something?"

Braig shook his head. "Nah. Just an…organization, of sorts." He looked over at Myde—or, at least, it seemed that way. With his face in the dark, it was hard to tell whether Braig was looking at him or not. "So, Myde, what's got you in such a tizzy?"

Myde sighed. "I…I got into a fight with my Ma…"

"Makes sense. You're, what, sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Seventeen, eighteen in September." He huffed. "Why am I even talking to you about this? It's not like I know you or anything…"

He could imagine a smirk from under the hood. "Humans like to talk when they're outraged. That's why protesters exist."

Myde looked up, his brow knit in confusion. "Wait…so…okay, lemme back it up. I've gotten these weird feelings tonight. Are you saying that they've been outrage?"

Braig shrugged. "Well, while you were screaming out to the heavens it was."

"But I got another feeling. It was kinda like it, but…not quite as angry. More…um…sad," he said, wishing he had a better word to use.

"And you felt like nothing could ever go right again?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"That's despair. And I should know; my boss talks about it nonstop," he said, most likely rolling his eyes. "Anyway, I'm not too surprised you haven't felt those before tonight. You're still a kid; you don't know crap about real life." He shrugged. "That, and _they're_ crawling all over the place here. Little buggers…"

"Who?"

"So, what were you fighting with your ma about?" Braig asked, getting back on subject suddenly. "Got a girlfriend she doesn't like? Bad grade on a math test?"

Myde raised his eyebrows; his question hadn't been answered. Then he half-smiled. "For an eavesdropper, you don't pay much attention, man." He sighed, looking down at his guitar. "I wanna be a rock star…and she told me to give up…"

"Give up? As if! C'mon, kiddo, let's see what you've got."

"What?"

"Play something for me. You can't be too bad at it if you're fighting for it."

Myde looked up at Braig for a moment, then shrugged and made sure his guitar was in tune. After that, he started playing. It was a pain without his pick, but it still sounded pretty good. After he finished, he shrugged again. "Happy?"

Braig seemed to be thinking. "You write that yourself?"

"Yeah. I write most of the songs I play. I-I mean, I take requests, too, but otherwise it's mostly original stuff."  
"Huh…" Braig lifted his head a little, and Myde could just barely see a smile under the hood. "Not bad, kid. I think you _would_ have a shot at the big time." He looked down at the water. "Dreams are good. They keep the heart strong. You don't give up on dreams, odds are you won't give up your heart, either."

Myde cocked his head. "Um, sorry to interrupt your fortune cookie monologue, but, um…are you, like, some kind of spiritual guide? Or something?"

"Spiritual guide?"

"Yeah. Like Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid."

Braig was silent for a minute, then let out a loud laugh. "As if! I'm the last person you should ever go to for advice, tiger." He got to his feet; Myde followed him, curious. Braig clapped a hand on the teenager's shoulder. "Listen, kiddo, I like you. You've got a lot of dedication. I'll put in a good word for you to the boss. Keep workin' hard, and maybe I'll see you again sometime."

"Heh, maybe…" Myde said, starting to turn away. Suddenly, he remembered something. "Hey, Braig, what did you mean by give up my…?" He trailed off. Braig was gone. It was like he had never been there in the first place. He sighed and looked down at his guitar. He clutched it close to himself, almost like a security blanket.

" 'Keep workin' hard'," he repeated softly, then let the guitar slip from his grip. He let out a dry little chuckle as he heard it splash into the darkness. "Yeah, but look at where that's gotten me so far."

He walked back to his apartment, and rest of the night passed in a blur. Black things, Heartless, were crawling around the streets, attacking people. Myde hadn't thought they were real, but soon enough, he was separated from Ma and Izzy in the confusion due to the attack. He never did find out what happened to them. Eventually he was surrounded by the little monsters, and, next thing he knew, he was waking up in a strange white room. He didn't know where, or even who, he was. That's when the man who called himself Xemnas came in and gave him a number and a new name, along with a black cloak.

"Welcome to the Organization, Member IX," he said. "I expect you to work hard."

He laughed as Xemnas left the room. "Work hard? What has _that_ ever done for me?"

Demyx sighed as he walked into the Gray Room, mentally preparing himself for an oh-so-exciting mission from Saix. Fun stuff, totally.

"Yo, Mulletboy," Axel called as he entered the room. "We're together today, so up and at 'em!"

"Shut up, I'll get around to it!" Demyx called back. Sometimes, he couldn't understand how the redhead was friends (or, as close as Nobodies could get) with Frowny Mc-Scary-Moon-Face. Sure, it seemed like they had similar agendas, but Axel was just so much more…not scary.

He sighed. _Please let it be recon, please let it be recon, please let it be recon… _he prayed as he walked up to Saix. Member VII looked at him most disagreeably.

"IX, today you are going with Axel to a new world to do…"

"Recon?" Demyx finished hopefully. Saix sent him a flat stare.

"To do battle with a giant, unidentified Heartless. Leave as soon as you can. And I mean it this time," he said, sending Demyx a glare that could probably kill a puppy on contact.

"All right, all right! Jeez, I've barely been here two weeks and you're working me like a dog," he muttered, walking back toward Axel. He bumped into someone. "Yo! Watch it!"

"Well, someone's got a temper this morning!"

Demyx looked up. "Oh, hey, Xigbar," he said. For some odd reason, he had a strange sort of kinship with the one-eyed, older member. Not that he was annoyed any less by him, but still, it was something.

Xigbar looked amused. "Damn…you're a lot different than you were when I first found you," he said with a laugh.

"Well, duh. Everyone's a zombie on their first day."

Xigbar rolled his eye. "Don't remember your past life yet, huh?"

"Nope, and I don't give a damn. Now let me get by, or Mr. Monotone'll eat me for breakfast."

"All right, all right! Chill out, jeez. Anyway, Maestro, I got you a little present. Here." He tossed the younger member a little piece of plastic. "It's one of those plastic, strummy things you, like, play guitar with."

Demyx arched an eyebrow. "A…pick?"

"Hey, you're the musician, not me. I'm just the sniper."

Demyx looked at it. "Where the hell did you find this?"

Xigbar shrugged. "Had it for a while, now. Found it on recon once. Thought you'd might like it. So, see ya, little dude." With that, he walked up to Saïx to get his mission.

Demyx looked curiously at the pick. It seemed awfully familiar. After a threat from Axel regarding the future state of his rear end if he didn't get a move on, he shrugged and put it in his pocket. He had needed a new pick for his sitar anyway.

"Man! You didn't do a damn thing out there, Demyx!" Axel said, laughing as they walked back to RTC. "If I weren't so impressed that you actually could do so little, I'd be royally pissed off."

Demyx shrugged. "Hey, I hate fighting. It hurts, and it makes you sweaty. Which is really gross."

Axel rolled his eyes. "How the hell did you even get into the Organization in the first place?"

The Melodious Nocturne laughed. "Well, believe it or not, I was pretty driven back when I had a heart. Y'know, go the distance, show everyone wrong, be awesome…well, awesom_er_."

Axel arched an eyebrow. "And what went wrong on the way here?"

Demyx shrugged and stuck his hands in his cloak pockets, playing with the pick in one of them. "I dunno. I kinda remember something from right before I lost my heart…something with the ocean, and being super pissed at something. And then there was a pivotal moment somewhere…"

"And…you don't remember the pivotal moment."

"No, I do." He grinned. "Hard work doesn't do anything for you, so what's the point?"

Axel laughed. "That's total B.S, Mulletboy."

"Oh, really? Since you've gotten here, what's all your hard work gotten you?"

Axel thought for a moment. "Well…I'm closer to getting a heart."

"Oh, whoop-di-freakin'-doo. C'mon, something that actually matters."

"That matters!"

"In the long run, maybe. A super indecisive maybe. Me, if I'm doing something, I want there to be solid results. Maybe's don't cut it." He sighed. "I mean, I still have to do something, or else I'm a Dusk. And…that would suck. But, still, I don't have to give it my all."

Axel put his hands behind his head. "Aw, c'mon. Don't you miss going the distance? Didn't it feel good at the end of the day?"

Demyx looked up at the redhead, his green eyes wide. "Oh, I still go the distance." He smiled widely and waved. "Well, see ya around, spiky!"

And with that, he went through the dark corridor and went the distance…straight up to his room and straight to sleep.


End file.
